


Feathers on the Moon

by altairattorney



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:40:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1991877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altairattorney/pseuds/altairattorney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some winged creatures sing the songs of the universe. Some don't, but do not know fear. Either way, beware. - Prompted by, and written for, a lover of the avian world, a collection of drabbles about the birds of Night Vale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Albatross

**Author's Note:**

> I have had a dear friend for several years. He is very sweet and clever, he has always been, and over time we shared many more things than I can count.
> 
> Before knowing him, I had yet to find a greater bird lover than myself; and now that we listen to Night Vale together every month, in spite of the distance of our hometowns, I thought it would be the right time to give him a (still way too little) token of my affection and my admiration through the only path I know how to walk, that of writing.
> 
> Roughly every week he is going to prompt me with a different species, and I am going to describe it within the span of a story - of course, it will happen in the Night Vale way. Recreating their existence in our beloved desert town is going to be a great opportunity to test my creativity, as an exercise of both writing and invention. Then, every time, I will have one more chance to say thank you.
> 
> Just like our paths crossed, I am glad Night Vale crossed yours, and I was the one to make it happen. I know how all of this is important to you - and to me.
> 
> Thank you.

The night workers had spotted it first, not that far from the sunrise.

The glow had crossed the night like a falling planet, on its unique trajectory, tracing a pattern that wasn’t familiar to any of them. From the way it looked, however — with its sharp corners and occasional spiraling lines, each fading at the center of a constellation — they deduced it had to be one of the forbidden patterns.

In unison, hey had shut the windows in all haste.

Even though they were, in fact, identical, the Secret Police had a hard time uncoding the reports that kept coming in through the morning. All over the empty halls and dark offices, the voices of dozens of citizens broadcast the same message.

They all claimed to have seen an albatross, and that its wings seemed to be woven in starlight. What followed were fifteen minutes of singing fear, occasionally interlaced with desperate wails.

It was not uncommon for the Secret Police to handle matters of this nature. What indeed  _was_  uncommon, especially for animals, was the citizens’ insistence on mentioning a bird that rare — not to mention it had been banished from the official List of Acknowledgeable Semi-Sentient Beings about five centuries before. 

According to the rules, the violation was allowed to happen twenty-three times before calling a state of Mystery Emergency upon the Police. And this meant, in the words of civilians, that a temporary and swift manifesting would be necessary to check on the matter.

Two agents set the procedure in motion, following the pulse of the distant light that still radiated from the creature. The magic circle caused them to appear on a sturdy jetty, planted on the left side of the Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area.

The inspection began from there; it didn’t take it long to end. At the end of the very same deck, watching the heat rise in waves, the bird rested on a pole, as if waiting for something to come from the depths of the desert.

While it was true that the eagles alone could look at the sun, it was also known that godlike creatures could make it temporarily implode; and the glittering feathers spread all over the albatross announced something no different than that.

The Secret Policemen drifted closer carefully, a camera ready in their translucent limbs. Hardly noticeable in the rays of the sun, they recorded the albatross’ every move.

And while it was rare for them to be surprised, they felt a timeless shiver along their spine as they noticed, from the pictures alone, that it was busy catching and eating fish. 

As soon as their dark eyes rose from the cameras, their trained ears caught a whirr that split the day in half. In the very same moment, the giant bird turned its head towards them, spreading its wings for inches, then feet, then miles and eternity.

It was a fleeting instant, but it lasted for hours. Through its wings, the policemen saw, and knew — in the expanse of its feathers, the shimmering sands had turned into water, the clouds into storm. Where their silvery edge started, the desert roared as the endless expanse of the ocean.

The albatross cried out loud, and they watched life and death happen within its shaky outline. They watched its knowledge and its soul, beating the surface of the seas with lightning and rain. They watched the scenery of a lifetime, of more than one, spent flying and fighting — caught in between two different shades of blue, forever on the border, forever in flight.

They were dazed, petrified, when the albatross folded its wings. For a second, its beak rose to the sky, singing an ancient chant that came from the distant void all godlike things inhabit.

Then, before they could take notice, it was gone. The wide wings were, once again, covering up the sky — in their silvery shine, the albatross reflected centuries of travels and gales.

Later in the evening, the sinister archives of the Secret Office for Top-Secret Matters swallowed two empty folders, full of blank, tear-stained pages.

Through the whole night, a piano played in reverse — and glowing forbidden patterns travelled to the East, fading as they met the oceanic currents. 


	2. Four Magpies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was kind of inspired by a true story. I wasn't there to see it, but it sounded so fun in my friend's words.
> 
> A small piece written to forget a horrible day. Although far, he was with me all along, and I thought I'd exploit my writing need to thank him dearly for all he has done and will do for me. I am looking forward to the other many years, I hope, we will spend together.

Four are the magpies in Cecil's orchard. Their dance could deceive inattentive passersby - in the blink of an eye they morph into five, or three, or none. Still, they don't care for what human eyes see; they keep drawing, in circles, their personal ballet.

Four magpies in an orchard Cecil doesn't remember having. A circle of purplish leaves, of lush flowers in non-existent colours. They are unlike the flowers any desert has seen, in a garden unlike those of any world. The petals come alive with each jump, and quiver gently every time their wings move.

Some things are meant to have a life of their own -- Cecil leaves them alone, the garden and the magpies, to their destiny.

The magpies come from the Whispering Forest, where all the loose ends of space and time meet. They play and reminisce about their former home. They got tired too early - all they had were trees, too kind and liars for their own good, and shady types selling glances of the future.

The wings of magpies can fly so much further. They were soon tired of it.

They stir their wings, merrily chattering. Each of their jumps awakens a grain of sand, making it fresh grass. It looks like a ritual, and maybe it is - maybe they are moves and cadences too ancient to decode, memories of the land where all eternal birds come from.

They sing, to pass the time. Eternity cannot go without boredom. They talk of the fragments of dreams they have stolen from people, to make them jewels on their satin mantles. They ruffle feathers of black and white - every gesture of the universe is written in there, in silk, in shadow and light.

They play a game so old that even they have forgotten what it means. But all games are the same to infinite creatures - they soon fly away, longing for new places to repeat the same old dance.

There are no magpies left in Cecil's orchard. There is no orchard, either.

He is not surprised, not at all. Same old routine.

 


End file.
